The woman shook her head fiercely. "My maid was with me at the inn and when we came home. Ask Flora! Ask her!" Touching the back of her hand against her forehead, she sank to the edge of the bed. "Oh, God," she whispered, "I was so afraid."

Ethan gaped in amazement.Christ, she's good —

With a bellow, the old man charged for Ethan. Habit took over. Ethan threw a fist, breaking his nose—blood spurted.

"I'll see you in Newgate for this!" the husband roared, cupping his face.

It was important for Ethan to remember something. What was it? "Goddamn it, I did nothing to this woman…and she instigated it all."

"Get him!" the old man thickly commanded his men.

At that instant, the answer Ethan sought came to him, and he lunged for his jacket.

A blow crashed against the back of his skull. His face pounded the floor. Fists rained down again and again, kicks to the gut…. He fought the blackness for as long as he could; he had to explain, had to defend himself.

He dimly heard the bitch crying to her husband, worrying about the scandal if this were to go to trial…their reputations, their standing…other husbands with his power would take care of this themselves.

Ethan knew that in this isolated part of the country the lords were their own entities, laws unto themselves if they chose, always with henchmen willing to do black deeds. And they hated strangers, much less foreigners.

The note, his deliverance, was stowed in his jacket pocket just feet from him. He tried to speak but could only grunt in pain. An attempt to reach for it earned him a booted kick to the chest.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw that she was crying hysterically, seeming to believe her own lies. "With you and Brymer gone, I was an easy target."

The cuckold was soothing her, wrapping her in his coat. "I should never have left you—"

"Th-that fiend was in the house with me, withMaddy !" she added significantly. Whoever this Maddy was, the mere mention of her in this context made the old man swing his gaze on Ethan. Seeming dumb with rage, eyes glazed over with it, he assured her they'd take care of this on their own—no one would have to know. Ethan felt true fear rippling through him.

They'd make sure the Scottish bastard never raped another woman as long as he lived.

Castration.Cold sweat broke out over Ethan's body; they were going to take a knife to him.

The old man hesitated, then gave a nod. "Brymer, take him out back. See it done."

This Brymer was the giant with the killing look in his eyes. "It will be a pleasure." He hauled Ethan up, dealing a punishing blow to his jaw. Ethan tried to shake it off, but blackness consumed him….

He woke to the bite of a rope cinched around his wrists. A bone-deep ache radiated from his shoulders up to his clenched fingers. He tried to open his eyes—only one swollen lid would crack enough for him to see—and found himself strung up to the rafter of some type of stable. A blood-soaked gag filled his mouth.

Ethan saw a tall, burly man sitting on the edge of a stool that was about to buckle under his great weight. His meaty leg bounced with nervous energy as he cast Ethan furtive, guilty glances. The man knew. He knew Ethan was being wronged. Of course, the wife would have done things like this before. Ethan yelled behind his gag and grappled against his bonds, frenzied to tell him about the note.

From behind him, he heard a door creak open. Brymer asked, "Is he awake yet, Tully?"

"Only just," Tully said, heaving his big frame to his feet. "I was thinking…m-maybe one of us should ride to the inn, and just ask a few questions."

"Van Rowen wants us to do a job on him," Brymer said. "So that's what we're going to do." Brymer was eager for it.

Van Rowen. Why did the name sound familiar? When Ethan got out of this, he would kill Van Rowen, ripping him apart with his bare hands. The man had no idea what he'd just brought down on himself and his entire family—

Ethan heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being unsheathed, and he fought to free his hands.

"But, Brymer, what would it hurt to ride—"

"I just returned from the inn. No one saw anything untoward." Brymer moved into Ethan's field of vision. "They just saw Mrs. Van Rowen eating a meal with Flora for about an hour before they left." He picked his teeth with the knifepoint. "Coachman swears he saw no one else and drove them home alone, as does Flora."

"But sometimes…it seems Mrs. Van Rowen might—"

"On the other hand," Brymer continued, ignoring Tully's words, "this one here's aforeigner , swilling spirits. The barmaid said he's a mean drunk and a Scottish brute."

That spiteful bitch…just because I passed her over…

"His die is cast, Tully. But as for you, you'll either follow your orders—or you'll take yourself off Van Rowen lands tonight."

No, no.Ethan could pay him a fortunenot to do this.

Tully's shoulders slumped.

No, goddamn it, no!

"Hold his head," Brymer ordered.

Tully did as he was told, taking Ethan's head in his thick arms. Ethan fought against the grip, spitting curses behind the gag.

"Wh-what do you plan to do?"

"First off, I'm going to finish what Mrs. Van Rowen started," Brymer said with a nod at the marks on Ethan's face. "I bet the ladies fancy his looks. They won't ever again after tonight. Of course, that'll be the least of his worries."

When Ethan felt the cold blade against the heated skin on his right cheek, he twisted, using all his remaining strength to break free. Nothing.

The knife sliced cleanly; Ethan roared in pain.

"Hold him still!" Brymer snapped.

"I'm trying!" Tully clenched harder. "He's a big bastard!"

Brymer cut and cut until blood coated Ethan's neck. Soon Ethan was numb all over, barely conscious.

"What are you doing?" Tully asked.

"If you take the strip from the middle, it will never heal right when he gets sewn up."

The desperate need to fight was there, burning in him, but his leaden body wouldn't cooperate. When Brymer was at last done, Tully released Ethan, and his head lolled forward.

Brymer took him by the hair, yanking him up to smile at his handiwork. "Come look, Tully."

The man did. His eyes went wide, and he retched repeatedly before he lunged away, vomiting in the hay.

When Ethan saw the strip of skin lying in the dirt, blackness dotted his vision. He silently vowed,I'm going to destroy you. You're all going to die as slowly as you've done this to me…. Then his eyes slid closed.

He was roused by an anguished bellow sounding from the manor house. The bitch began screaming as well, a series of shrieks growing louder in succession.

A door slammed…someone ran toward them…seconds later a servant burst through the doorway of the stable, gasping, "Stop! Let him free!"

In a flash of clarity, Ethan comprehended what had happened. Another of the bitch's screams rent the quiet of the night, then sudden silence.

Ethan laughed behind his gag, crazed. Wetness leaked from his eyes.

Van Rowen had found the note.

Chapter One

London

Summer 1856

Ethan had long grown used to the sinking expressions people cast him when they realized it was he who darkened their doorsteps—but in the East End rookeries this tendency seemed even more pronounced.

Many saw Ethan and ran.

The sound of his boots booming across wet cobblestones was all Ethan heard as he chased a drunken cockney—one among many of his sources of information.

Lunging forward, Ethan clamped the cockney's shoulders, tossing him headfirst into the side of a tenement building. The man collapsed into a stunned heap.

Hauling him to his feet, Ethan drew his pistol, pressing the muzzle against the man's temple. "Where's Davis Grey?"

"I 'aven't seen 'im." He hissed in a breath between the copious gaps in his teeth. "I swear to ye, MacCarrick!"

Ethan casually cocked his gun. The drunk knew of his reputation, knew Ethan would just as easily shoot him as not back in this dark alley. "Then why did you run?"

"B-because ye scare the piss out o' me."

Understandable.

"I 'eard Grey was in Portugal, with an 'unger for opium. And that 'e might be returnin'. That's all. I swear it!"

After a hesitation, Ethan released him, deciding to believe him. The information meshed with his own, and this man likely wouldn't court Ethan's wrath by lying. "You know what to do if you see Grey. And you know what I'll do if you doona notify me."

The cockney muttered thanks for his mercy, then scurried off into the night.

For the last several hours, Ethan had combed the slums, using all his resources to track Davis Grey, a onetime compatriot and family friend—and now Ethan's target.

Though all his reports indicated that Grey wasn't in England, Ethan had wanted to make certain. Tonight he'd chased every lead he'd been able to think of in London. Tomorrow he would leave the city to hunt for Grey elsewhere.

As Ethan strode down the winding, narrow streets back to his mount, a surprisingly comely whore smiled and dropped her shawl, revealing her heavy breasts to him.

And he felt nothing.

When he passed under a flickering gaslight, he showed the woman the other side of his face. She turned away in disgust, yanking her shawl to her neck. It was because of women like her that he'd stopped seeking sex entirely.

At twenty-three, he'd still been in bandages when he'd fully comprehended he wouldn't be having any woman he didn't have to pay. He'd already vowed never to drink again after that night in Buxton. And for a young man suddenly deprived of drinking and women—two of his routine follies—a profession in the Network, one of the Crown's clandestine organizations, had held definite appeal. Along with his brother Hugh, Ethan had signed on, but only after he'd delivered a subtle, but absolute, revenge against his enemies.